More Than a Man, Less than a Hero
by Story Please
Summary: Harry is running late and finds himself in a broom closet. It's just another hectic morning at St Mungo's, and he hasn't even met his new boss! Harry may not be Superman, but that won't stop him from trying to be the best at what he does!


Author's Note: Written for Semi Finals for Season 6 of the QLFC

Semi Finals **Allow Me To Introduce ...**

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Captain

Captain's Prompt: Scrubs: Superman — Lazlo Bane

Word Count: 2,151

Beta Love: Ebenbild, crochetaway, sekdaniels- you guys rock!

Additional Author's Note: This is an AU story- instead of becoming an Auror, Harry Potter and his friends decide to dedicate their lives to healing as a way of coping with the horrors of war and the loss of many dear friends and family members. Note: characters may behave in slightly canon-noncompliant ways due to humor being employed in homage to _Scrubs_ , which is the television show this song prompt accompanies.

* * *

 **More than a Man, Less than a Hero**

"Maybe I should grow it out. Then at least I could put it back in a ponytail." Harry Potter sighed and ran his fingers through his messy hair. No matter how much he tried to charm it down, it just stuck up again.

Harry rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then splashed cold water on his face. He finished patting his skin dry and put on his glasses. A movement to his right drew his attention, his eyes straying to the small cuckoo clock on the wall and he felt a swoop of anxiety rising in his belly.

"Shite! I'm going to be late!" He turned quickly, skidding on the round bathroom rug and slid out into the hallway. Steadying himself on the far wall, he kicked the rug haphazardly back through the door and ran back to his room. "No time, no time," he muttered, throwing his medical robes over his head and holding his wand under one arm while trying to fasten them properly. Two pieces of toast popped up from his toaster and he summoned them as he ran for the fireplace and activated the Floo.

"St Mungo's!" Harry shouted, his mouth slightly muffled at the end as both pieces of toast shot into his mouth with a comical sound. Tripping over his shoelaces, he twisted and fell back into the green flames, hoping desperately that he'd said the words clearly enough.

* * *

Harry landed in the broom closet with a loud thud. His grunt of pain was muffled as he choked down his toast. A broom clattered and flew forward, hitting the wall just before it would have smacked him across the face.

"In a hurry?" An old man with a closely-cropped white beard and a custodian's cap pulled over his eyes smiled down at Harry and reached out a hand.

"Yes, sorry!" Harry said, taking it and pulling himself up to standing. "They're announcing the new boss for our wing today. If you don't mind telling me, where, exactly am I?"

The man stroked his beard. "Well now, you're in luck. This is the second floor janitorial closet."

Harry looked around, blinking in confusion. For not only was there no Floo fireplace, but the room was far too small for anything other than the janitorial supplies and the man facing him.

"Didn't you say you were late?" The man said, rousing Harry from his reverie.

"Ah, yes! Sorry! Must run!" Harry hastily waved and took off down the hall, then turned around and ran back the other way when he realized that he had gone the wrong direction.

"Good luck, Harry! He means well!" the man said, his blue eyes twinkling.

For a moment, Harry wondered how the man knew his name, but then he collided with someone and they both fell forward onto the landing between floors in a heap of flailing robes.

"Get off me!" Harry heard a familiar voice shout and pulled his sleeve away to reveal the rather annoyed expression on Ron Weasley's face. His sleeve was pulled up on one arm, showing the tips of the ropy cursed scars from the brains that had attacked him in their fifth year stunt at the Ministry. It had been these scars and the number of cursed scars that he threw himself into learning how to treat after the war was over. Ron was meticulous in tracing the root of a curse, and then surgically removing every trace of it with his wand. Not even Hermione, who was the head nurse of the recovery ward, could wield her wand in the artful manner that came naturally to Ron.

As Ron was fond of saying, "Curse removal is all about strategy—it wants to burrow deeper and do as much damage as possible, and it's my job to think ten steps ahead of it."

Harry's job as Attending Healer was less specialized than Ron's, but he had more flexibility and scope to his duties, and his quick diagnostic skills had saved many a life in the post-war world. But just like he had at Hogwarts, Harry was often unconvinced that he'd truly earned his place on the St Mungo's team the way Ron and Hermione had.

"Oi, _there_ you are Harry!" Ron exclaimed, looking profoundly relieved. Harry scrambled off of Ron and pulled him up.

"Sorry mate, the time got away from me," Harry said, ruffling his hair sheepishly. "Hey, so what do you think about me growing out my hair?"

"It'll still find some way to stick up and you know it," Ron replied with a laugh. "Now come on, let's get to the Overseer's room before Hermione hexes us!"

* * *

The Overseer's room was a tall, glass-covered atrium at the top of St. Mungo's. Healing plants grew all around the conference room proper, giving it the appearance of a hanging garden. Shining, bronze frames shaped like protective wards criss-crossed the glass, which was all different colours and cast a rainbow of colour down onto the plush carpeted floor.

Harry and Ron dashed into the back just as the meeting began, hiding behind the voluminous figure of a woman who appeared to be half-giant.

"Now, now, _children_ , settle down or I'll dock pay for the lot of you!" barked Head Healer Price, who was the oldest, crustiest wizard Harry had ever met. "Unless, of course, Death finally sees fit to free me from this cursed old body!"

Sometimes Harry imagined the man playing chess with Death on his birthday every year and winning every time because it was the only reason he could see for why the man was still alive. It didn't help that Healer Price was also immensely bitter about it.

"Today, Minister Kingsley required me to introduce your new Chief Healer. So, without further ado, since all of my ado has been backed up inside of me since the turn of the century, please clap for Chief Healer, Severus Snape. Or don't. I don't care."

There was a smattering of applause and a familiar figure in robes that were fitted all the way up to the elbows but loose and dramatically cut everywhere else strode onto the stage. "Good morning," Snape said, his voice somehow gritty and smooth all at once. "Just so all of you know, I think of each and every one of you as idiots. Many of you got your jobs because Daddy and Mummy had money to throw around. Others—" At this, he turned and glared through the half-giant at Harry and Ron. "—others have skated in on fame and fortune. But does Death give one flying fig about money? Or fame and fortune?" He slammed his hand down on the podium so hard that even the plants seemed to jump. " _ **No**_! Not one bloody bit! Not a one of you is Superman, and you'd better accept it or you'll have more than just a bruised ego. I expect each and every one of you to let go of that ego immediately. _Ego_ is what gets people killed. Now, before I dismiss you, a few housekeeping issues..."

Harry stared. Snape looked older than before—his hair shot through with a few streaks of gray, and his face hollow in a way that it had never been before. He looked like a man who'd died and come back to life, which of course was exactly what had happened. Just like Harry, Snape had been thought dead until later, when they all found out that Winky had Apparated him to St. Mungo's in the nick of time. And now, instead of Potions Master it seemed that Snape had decided to move into the medical field to make Harry's life as difficult as possible all over again.

"Ugh, why did it have to be Snape?" Ron whispered, rolling his eyes as the speech dragged on.

"At least you don't have to worry about having to work directly with him all day," Harry hissed back.

"Sorry, mate," Ron said, looking genuinely sympathetic.

"Shush, you two!" hissed Hermione, who'd appeared out of nowhere at Ron's shoulder.

Ron flushed but said nothing.

Hermione slipped her hand into his. "Missed you this morning," she mouthed.

Harry looked away, embarrassed. Ginny was off training for the Harpies' second-string team, and he couldn't help but ache with loneliness at the thought of the next few weeks. He just had to hold onto the fact that someday soon they would be together again.

"Everyone is dismissed!" Snape barked, and everyone stood quickly to leave. "Except you, Healer Chosen One. Get your scrawny arse over here."

Harry instantly ducked down as though this would somehow hide him from view, but the half-giant mediwitch had already disappeared out the door, so there was nothing for it.

"See you later, mate," Ron said, as Hermione pulled him towards the exit.

"See you, Harry," Hermione said distractedly. "Now come on, Ron, or we'll be late!"

"Coming, coming," Ron said, sharing an exasperated look with Harry.

Harry looked at Snape and was struck by the mental image of a small black dragon sitting behind the podium, smoke pouring from its nostrils. There was no use in putting it off; he'd have to go up there. The dragon snorted and the mental image was replaced by the very real image of Snape with his hands on his hips.

" _Today_ , Potter," he said tersely.

Harry went. "You needed to see me, sir?" he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"How many years have you studied healing magic?" Snape asked, pacing around Harry in a circle.

"I did in school, and I've been shadowing the other healers for the past few years," Harry said, trying to keep his mind from snatching onto anxious thoughts. Could Snape fire him? Simply because he thought Harry wasn't qualified?

"And in those years, how many patients have had... _less than favourable_ outcomes?" Snape enquired.

"Less than five, sir," Harry said. Only one had been life-threatening, but Harry counted the time he'd treated a patient's foot fungus with hummus instead of the proper salve after mixing up the cooling boxes as one. The other two had been mix-ups where he'd read the wrong patient file and forgot to confirm with the patient before beginning his diagnostic follow-up. The only one that Harry still cringed when he thought about it involved a witch in distressed labour with twins that had almost died due to Harry's lack of hands-on knowledge when it came to maternity-related issues.

"Is that so?" Snape paused a moment, as though considering this. "I doubt it very highly, Potter, and here's why. When you thought of those things, you thought of situations that were extreme. What if I told you that it isn't just the extreme cases that lead to less than favourable outcomes. The witch that you were overly harsh with might decide not to come back when her condition acts up again and may die if it worsens. The wizard who is prescribed the wrong medication or wasn't counseled on how to properly take it might go home and feel that it isn't working and incubate a disease that might potentially mutate and cause an epidemic. There are plenty of situations where you might think that you've made a mistake beyond notice, but let me be the first to tell you that _there are no mistakes too small_ that you cannot look at as an opportunity to improve."

"Your point, sir?" Harry tried not to sound wounded, but his pride had been hurt, and he was struggling not to say something cutting about Snape's own history of harshness.

"My point is," Snape leaned down until they were nearly nose to nose, and Harry had to force himself not to flinch and step backwards, "that you cannot improve unless you get over yourself and learn to find every tiny incident where you are less than perfect and _make it better_. Do you understand?"

Harry swallowed his anger and nodded, his face growing warm with the effort of trying to hold back his feelings.

"Good. Now get out of my sight. I'll see you in morning rotations." Snape turned back to the podium and picked up a stack of papers, his body language suggesting that he was pretending that Harry did not exist.

Harry fled the room at a brisk pace but did his best not to run. He didn't want Snape to know that he'd gotten under his skin so easily, though he was fairly certain he was doing a poor job of hiding it.

"I may be no Superman," Harry muttered through gritted teeth as he grabbed his list of patients for the morning rotation. He resolved to do a flawless job that day if only to prove to the new Chief Bastard that he wasn't just skating on his status as a hero, "but at least I am no Snape."


End file.
